At the edge of the ancient sea, I speak to the waves. I listen closely, a hope to hear the language of our ancestors; water upon water crashing in tongues from an epoch before. To comprehend it is to fail at the task, at the path that is laid before us but which we cannot see.
Amongst the noise, you may find an inner stillness. The waves crashing within me are of many origins. Each having not one point of origin, but many which cause displacement, intersecting and slowly building to a turbulent roar. The sound is overwhelming; awareness is reduced to a singular light at the end of a seemingly infinite tunnel.
But to pass judgement is to hinder progress. If I could hear them – our ancestors – clearly, they might say, "all is not lost, even in the eternal.”
I am the waves crashing. I am the water flowing up and over, momentarily airborne, then crashing down into the infinite. I am the inevitable light at the end of the tunnel. I watch from the shore as the cliffs crumble and crash into waters below; a new beginning. I am time itself.
